


Means of Peace

by fructosebat



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fix-It, Romance, Season 3 rewrite, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Twistory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fructosebat/pseuds/fructosebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moloch may be gone, but the horseman of Death still remains. There's a new player in town, which means Team Witness once more needs to rally. </p><p>a.k.a. The absolutely necessary Season 3 rewrite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Means of Peace

**Author's Note:**

> There aren't enough curse words in my vocabulary to describe my feelings on how Season 3 ended. So I'm using the rest of my vocabulary to fix this nonsense. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta-readers and co-conspirators, garaagirl22 and yespolkadot_kitty, who have a lot of reading ahead of them.
> 
> Some dialogue taken or adapted from 3x01: _I, Witness_.

 

The horse's hooves thundered down against the earth of the field as the horseman of Death rode under a turbulent sky. Suddenly, a strange vortex shot down from the clouds, kicking up a mass of dirt and drawing the horse up short in front of it.

 

A woman stood before the horseman, bone-pale and unafraid. Nonchalantly, she said, “Pretty horse.” The horseman held tighter to the reins as his mount tried to pull away from the cloaked figure. “No, don't be afraid,” said the woman, mild. “Shall I sing you a song?”

 

The headless horseman swung his ax in his hand, the blade glowing red against the dark sky, only to find that his arm was frozen in place. In vain, the horseman struggled against whatever magical restraint she had placed on him as the woman stepped forward, resting a delicate hand on the horse's muzzle and tilting her head up to speak to the rider.

 

“I have a proposition for you,” she said. “I'll release you if you hear me out.”

 

After a moment, the horseman was once more free to move, and he brought his ax slowly down to his side, rolling his shoulders and readjusting his stance in the saddle. He waited.

 

Crossing to a tree stump, the woman drew a hand across a large and ornately carved urn that sat at her eye level. Her fingers caressed the elaborate patterns in the stone as she turned her eyes back to the horseman. “I want to talk to you about fear,” said Pandora.

 

***

 

Johnny Kato came crashing through the warehouse door, fumbling his way down the stairs with Agent Abbie Mills close on his heels. They were halfway down the driveway when Abbie laid hands on him, twisting his arms behind his back and slamming him down onto the hood of her car.

 

“OW!” Johnny protested.

 

Abbie glanced around. “They're still watching. Make it look good.”

 

“Should I say 'You'll never take me alive, copper'?” Johnny smirked up at her from where his face was pressed against the car.

 

“Funny,” said Abbie. “Tell me about the meet.”

 

“It's happening tonight. 9:30. Lorenzo's meeting with Earl Grayson and his people in Earl's warehouse downtown.”

 

Abbie hissed, “It's happening _tonight?_ That doesn't exactly give us a lot of time, Kato.”

 

“'Zo hasn't let me alone the past three weeks. He's getting suspicious – I think he might know I've been talking to you.”

 

“You're my C.I., Johnny. Stay on the edges of things tonight, I'll make sure you don't get hurt. Okay?” She pretended to twist his arm.

 

“OW!” he yelled again. “Okay, okay!”

 

Yanking Johnny off the car, she released him and shoved him away. “Consider this a warning!” Abbie announced loudly, for the benefit of Johnny's companions, who were watching from a safe distance. “I don't want to see you loitering in this neighborhood again!”

 

“Fine, lady!, whatever!” Johnny walked back towards the group, rubbing at his wrists and muttering under his breath angrily.

 

As the group skulked off around a corner, Abbie's phone vibrated in her pocket. “Mills,” she answered, still flying high on the successful exchange of information. As she listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, though, her elation evaporated. “Yes, I know him. Where?”

 

***

 

The visiting room of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement was full of activity, but Abbie wasn't paying attention. Instead she gazed into the middle distance, troubled and distracted. A loud buzzer sounded, a guard opened a door, then Abbie got her first sight of her erstwhile partner in nine months.

 

Crane's hair was cut short – short for him, anyway – and his ever-formal stance was at odds with his bright orange prison uniform. When he caught sight of Abbie, his features softened and his posture shifted as he moved quickly to sit opposite her at the table. “Lieutenant – ”

 

“I'm gonna stop you right there, Crane,” said Abbie, barely restraining herself from shouting. “They told me they caught you trying to enter the country with restricted materials. How long have you been here, and how long did it take you to actually call me?”

 

“This is my...fifth day in the facility,” he admitted.

 

“Right,” said Abbie.

 

“Lieutenant, you are owed an explanation for my absence – ”

 

“Yes, I am.”

 

“ - and I'm afraid I can offer you little but my most sincere apologies. I...you know why I left.”

 

Abbie barked a harsh laugh. “Yes! I know. And I understood. What you went through...it wasn't something that was easy to bear. So I gave you space. You said you needed to leave for awhile, get your head together – I get that. But, Crane, it's been _nine months._ And not a call, not a text, an email, a _postcard._ Where the hell have you been?”

 

“A great many places, and I'm sure – I _hope_ – that I shall have occasion to regale you with tales of my travels.” There were the puppy-dog eyes. She’d tried to forget the puppy-dog eyes. “But I've something of great import to discuss with you.”

 

“This should be good,” she said. Crane held up a finger, then reached beneath the orange fabric of his uniform shirt, pulling out a very familiar pendant on a chain and laying it on the table. “Is that – ?”

 

Crane nodded. “Katrina's necklace. I'm not entirely sure what it was that compelled me to keep it. But as you know, it is linked to the spirit of Abraham van Brunt. Last night, something happened to it.” Now he pulled the collar of his shirt aside once more to reveal a nasty-looking burn mark, about the same size as the pendant.

 

“Jesus, Crane,” said Abbie in a harsh whisper. “Did you see a doctor about that? Why isn't it bandaged?”

 

“I held some concern that an authority figure might assume I'd obtained some matches. It could have landed myself or my cell mate in trouble.”

 

“That's gonna get infected if you don't treat it soon,” fretted Abbie.

 

“Let us lay it aside for the moment,” Crane said, but he winced when he let his shirt fall over the wound once more. “There are other, more pressing concerns. As I said, last night I was lying awake due to my cell mate's ceaseless snoring, when this pendant suddenly began to glow from within, and grow very hot to the touch. I pulled it off at once, of course – ”

 

“After it had charred your skin,” grumbled Abbie under her breath.

 

“ - and it continued to glow quite brightly for at least a subsequent half-hour. I believe that someone or something has bestowed our foe with a great deal of power.”

 

“Orrrrrr maybe Headless just realized you were wearing it and wanted to hurt you.” Crane started to speak again, but Abbie cut him off. “In either case, you should probably just flush the damned pendant down a toilet and _move on with your life._ Which is what I've done,” she added. “By the way. Not that you asked.”

 

“I – I meant to. I was merely – ”

 

“It's fine,” sighed Abbie. “We should get you out of here, though. I have a job to get back to.”

 

“Yes – how fare you at the police department?” Crane was quick to ask.

 

“I don't. Not anymore.” At his questioning look, she said, “After you left, you know, I waited. For a bit. I thought you'd have your walkabout and then come back, but when you didn't...I packed up and went to Quantico, did my training there, and now...” She pulled her badge off of her belt, laying it on the table.

 

“You joined the Federal police?”

 

“That was always the plan,” said Abbie, returning the badge to its rightful place. “And with Moloch and Henry gone, and with _you_ gone...there wasn't really much to tie me to the Sleepy Hollow PD.”

 

Crane's face was disproportionately grave. “I see.”

 

Abbie contemplated him for a moment, then said, “Come on, let's get you out of here.”

 

Standing, Crane moved to the front of the room and began to speak as if in a lecture hall while Abbie quietly face-palmed. “Thomas Paine described America as a place where all parts are brought into perfect unison. Indeed, though my stay here has been brief, I have come to value the concord I found with my fellow detainees.”

 

The other occupants of the room stared at Crane as he gave a short bow. One man in the corner of the room put his fist to his chest, pulling his hand away with a backwards peace sign. Crane returned the gesture solemnly.

 

“You want to spend more time with your 'friends'?”

 

He side-eyed her. “Good God, no.”

 

“Then go put on your clothes.”

 

***

 

Ten minutes into the tense drive back to Sleepy Hollow, Abbie finally got her teeth to stop grinding enough to speak. “So,” she began, and Crane started in his seat, “tell me where you've been.”

 

He cleared his throat before speaking. “Many, varied places. Most recently, though, I visited my ancestral home in Scotland. I thought it might...tether me, a bit. I was drifting,” he explained, in response to Abbie's raised eyebrow. “After...what happened, and with no further mission to pursue, I felt that there may not be a place for me in this century. But in one of my family's tombs, I found something of great import to us both,” said Crane, with renewed vigor, then deflated and groused, “only to have it confiscated by the U.S. Government. 'Improper import of cultural antiquities.' My own family's property!”

 

“I'll pull some strings, get it back for you.”

 

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Crane, relieved.

 

“Agent,” corrected Abbie.

 

“'Agent,'” he tried.

 

Glancing at him consideringly, Abbie amended, “Nah, let's stick with 'Leftenant.' I can only handle so much change.” She tugged at a lock of his shorter hair to indicate its length, a tiny, sharp smile on her face. “So tell me what it is you found that got you arrested by the customs department.”

 

Tucking his hair back behind his ear, Crane said, “In my family's crypts, I had the peculiar honor of robbing my own grave.” He checked for her reaction, and Abbie spared him a brief glance. “And within I found something remarkable: a stone tablet. And fortunately, before it was _confiscated_ , I was able to decipher some of its engravings. It was Sumerian. Four thousand years old. Roughly translated, it said, 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.'”

 

By the time he finished speaking, Crane's face was as solemn as it was possible to be, which only contributed to Abbie's sudden burst of laughter. Bringing a hand to her mouth to try to contain it, she turned to him only to find him looking affronted. “You're serious?”

 

“Yes. I assure you. I am,” he said, all bluster. “You see, this tablet – ”

 

“Let me guess,” she began, watching the road. "You think it's got something to do with our roles as Witnesses of the Apocalypse and that there's some legend or prophecy tied up with it. You think some ancient Babylonian shaman chiseled out this tablet because they knew we'd need it for the fight in the war between good and evil, and you've found it at just the right time so we'll know what our purpose is. Am I right?”

 

Crane stammered for a moment, then managed, “Well, no, actually, you're not. First of all, the tablet is _Sumerian –_ ”

 

“Oh, excuse me,” Abbie corrected herself with a dry smile.

 

“ - and, all right, yes. I did think it has to do with our role as Witnesses. But I'm sure if you were to examine the artifact with me – ”

 

“I'm out of this, Crane,” she cut him off, smile gone. “I'm done. I want a normal life, with my normal job, and normal worries. We defeated Moloch, that's it. I leave any supernatural-fighting nonsense to those who actually want to do it. Which is why I'm taking you to see Jenny.”

 

Silence reigned for a moment. Abbie could feel Crane staring at her, confused and hurt. When he finally opened his mouth to say something, her phone rang, interrupting him.

 

“Mills,” she answered, turning it on speakerphone.

 

“Agent Mills, we've had a report of two dead bodies in Westchester National Park. Local authorities are requesting Federal assistance due to jurisdictional issues.”

 

“Copy that, I'm on my way,” Abbie said, and ended the call. “I have a new mission now, as an FBI agent,” she said after a moment. Flicking her eyes to Crane, she caught him struggling to school his expression, and she softened a little. “Maybe you want to tag along?” she offered. “Just this once.”

 

“I'd very much like to see you at your work,” Crane accepted, voice oddly hushed.

 

They rode in silence the rest of the way to the crime scene.

 

***

 

The Lieutenant flashed her badge at the police officer nearest the crime scene tape, then gestured to Ichabod, saying, “He's with me.” The officer lifted the tape for them, and they passed through, making their way into the cabin beyond.

 

“We still don't know cause of death?” the Lieutenant questioned one of the analysts in the room as Ichabod tried to surreptitiously wander closer to the bodies for a better look. He was so enthralled as to not notice her appearance at his elbow. “No blood,” she observed, close enough that Ichabod jumped a little. “They're putting time of death at around midnight.”

 

“There are no marks on the bodies,” said Ichabod.

 

“Signs of a struggle, though.” The Lieutenant paced her way across the small room, ably stepping around the various technicians at work. “One of them shoved the table, here: backed himself into a corner.”

 

Spotting something on one of the walls, Ichabod leaned in to examine it. “Lieutenant,” he said, so she'd step nearer and he could speak in confidence. “These men were frightened to death.”

 

“You can't know that,” the Lieutenant argued.

 

“I can. Look at these marks on the wall. Burnt along the edges?” Something had sliced two neat strokes through the plaster, at odd angles to each other. When he looked down, he discovered something else and reached down to retrieve it. “And look, here.”

 

“Is that a...finger joint?” asked the Lieutenant, nose crinkled in rather a fetching manner. “Where the hell are you going?” she demanded, as Ichabod made his way outside, holding the tiny bone cupped in his palm by his side. She scolded him under her breath as she followed, “That could be evidence. You are removing evidence from the scene of a damned crime.”

 

“Those were ax marks in there on the wall.”

 

“So? It's a rustic cabin, maybe somebody was – I don't know – chopping wood!”

 

“With a blade that leaves scorch marks?” Ichabod rounded on her when he had reached a stone well some distance from the building. “Are you so desperate to wash your hands of being a Witness that you fail to recognize who may very well have caused this? Not a day after what happened with Katrina's necklace?”

 

Markedly reining her temper in, the Lieutenant said, “I'm not saying that it couldn’t be supernatural. Okay? What I'm saying is that there _could_ be a totally logical, _normal_ explanation for this that you are not seeing.”

 

“Because I am so desperate for everything to be tied to the Apocalypse. Clearly, I wish for the world to end,” railed Ichabod.

 

“You said it, not me,” muttered the Lieutenant.

 

“There's a simple way to test this, _which is why_ I removed it from the crime scene.” Resting the small piece of bone on the lip of the well, Ichabod drew out a small leather pouch from his pocket, explaining to the Lieutenant, “Dragon's breath. Something I obtained on my travels.”

 

“Something you picked up in duty-free?” she sniped, but he noticed that she drew closer to him, to hide his activities atop the well from the other law enforcement officers present.

 

Gently, he sprinkled a sparing amount of the powder onto the finger bone. “It was used by the Dominican Order during the Spanish Inquisition to test for demonic activity. If demons are present, it should heat up...a little.” Nothing was happening. “Maybe I should – return it whence I found it,” Ichabod said, reaching for the piece of bone, only to quickly withdraw as the powder suddenly _popped!_ into flame like a pyrotechnic.

 

“Whoa!” cried the Lieutenant. Ichabod was scrubbing his hand against his coat as if that could somehow stop him from nearly having burned off his fingers, but he turned when he saw her watching him. “We should definitely get this tested. For more than just demonic activity,” she said, but there was some acquiescence in her tone.

 

“Yes. But there is one thing we know: evil, in some form or another, has returned to Sleepy Hollow.”

 

***

 

“Very impressive! Certainly a step up from the Sheriff's department,” Crane was saying as Abbie led him into the local FBI headquarters. Opening the door to the office, she stood aside to let him through, but he stopped, saying only, “Lieutenant,” like he'd just been handed the key to the city. To be fair, that was about how she'd felt when she'd first seen her new office as well.

 

Once he was inside, she shut the door and watched Crane pace around examining things like a giant, pompous stork. “What do you think?” she prompted.

 

“Little wonder this was your goal, Lieutenant,” he said, admiringly. “You're finally being recognized for your talents and investigative prowess.”

 

“I – ” Abbie began, then realized what he'd said. “Thank you.”

 

Crane just held her eyes with his for a moment, smiling, before seeming to catch himself. “Anaconda?” he asked, indicating the video screen.

 

“Yes,” Abbie said, crossing the room with him to the TV. “A multi-state drug trafficking ring. The boss, Lorenzo Jenkins,” she gestured to a picture of a sour-looking middle-aged white man, “has evaded capture for years. Fortunately, I've got someone on the inside to help me out,” here she gestured to the picture of Johnny Kato, a handsome Japanese-American man. “He's good. I'm thinking I might try to talk him into some police training when this is all over. He just passed me some information about a meet that's happening tonight.”

 

“So these are the monsters you fight now,” Crane said with a small smile.

 

“Yes. And you know what I've noticed?” said Abbie. “Not as much ectoplasm.” Crane chuckled.

 

The door opened behind Abbie, revealing a petite brown-skinned woman in a lab coat, holding a folder. “These are for you, Agent Mills.”

 

“Thank you, Roshani,” said Abbie, accepting the lab reports and beginning to scan them. When the door didn't immediately close, she looked back up to see Roshani giving Crane a suspicious glare, mostly fixated on his antiquated clothing. “Elevated levels of ACTH,” Abbie prompted, and the lab tech snapped out of it. “What does that mean, Roshani?”

 

“Sorry,” she replied, focusing on Abbie again. “ACTH is a hormone secreted by the pituitary during moments of terror.”

 

“Look at their fists,” Crane pointed at a picture of one of the victims. “Clenched – in fear. What did I tell you? Frightened to death.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Abbie said, still scanning the reports, “and what's this in here about the finger joint?”

 

“It was phosphorescent,” provided Roshani.

 

At this, Abbie raised her eyebrows, surprised. Crane just looked confused. “Means it glows in the dark,” Abbie explained.

 

“Ah,” said Crane.

 

“It's not emitting any kind of radiation, though, other than background. And it's definitely real bone, though there was something else strange about it. It's going to sound crazy if I say it out loud,” Roshani said, laughing a little at herself. “But, while it is a human phalange, it doesn't seem to have ever actually...been inside a human body before. That is to say, there's no evidence of it ever having been cleaned or had muscle tissue or tendon removed from it. It's almost like it was...grown without those things.”

 

Abbie exchanged a look with Crane, internally searching for a way to redirect the lab tech’s attention. “Well I know this is why _I_ joined the FBI,” Abbie managed, with false cheer. “Always some new crazy mystery! Like the X-files.” Roshani shook her head with a nervous laugh. “I'm sure you'll figure it out. Thanks again.” Once the door was closed behind Roshani, Abbie spoke before Crane could. “Okay, so this probably is supernatural, but that does not mean it's related to the Apocalypse.”

 

“Lieutenant, the Bible foretold that the two Witnesses would suffer seven years of tribulation – ”

 

“We beat Moloch, okay?” said Abbie, throwing up her arms in exasperation. “We beat him! This is probably just...stray monsters running around. Left over from Purgatory.”

 

Crane drew a deep breath. “Then how do you explain the ax marks on the wall of that cabin?” Abbie began to speak, but he cut her off, “And need I remind you of the sudden rush of power in Katrina's pendant?”

 

“That does remind me, thank you,” Abbie said darkly, and gently guided a confused Crane by the arm towards the far wall until he sat down on the couch.

 

“Lieutenant, what – ?”

 

“Stay there,” she ordered, and retrieved her first aid kit from her desk drawer. “Pull down your collar.” She settled on the arm of the couch and pulled out an alcohol wipe, swiping it across the wound on Crane's sternum. He hissed in complaint when the wipe touched his skin, but was otherwise silent. “I'm going to level with you, Crane. Other than a couple spare monsters causing trouble around town – don't worry, they were taken care of – since you left, there hasn't been _any sign_ of any apocalyptic happenings around here.”

 

“A coincidence, perhaps.”

 

“Maybe,” Abbie conceded, and traded the wipe for a tube of antibiotic ointment. “And maybe what you found does herald another potential doomsday, but the thing is, Crane? I'm finally back on track. My career is finally going in the direction I wanted it to. When you left,” she said, and Crane tensed. Abbie couldn't tell if it was due to her taping down the bandage or something else. “When you left, I felt for you. And I worried for you. And I didn't hear from you, and I kept not hearing from you, and at some point I had to think about moving on with my life.

 

“So maybe,” she continued, standing and tidying after herself, throwing away wrappings and tucking away the first aid kit, “yes, maybe this is the start of the next apocalypse. But somehow, I don't think it is. And _this –_ ” Abbie gestured at her shiny new office, “ - is where I want to be right now.”

 

For once lost for words, Crane merely watched her from across the room, then cast his eyes down, touching the bandage on his chest.

 

“Look, I have a meeting about Anaconda in an hour. Why don't we meet up with Jenny and bring her up to speed, and I'll help you out with this as much as I can.”

 

Crane nodded, and stood to leave.

 

***

 

“What happened?” Ichabod exclaimed upon walking into the Archives. All the furniture was shrouded and hidden, and the grand room seemed somehow smaller for it.

 

“The city sold the building to developers,” said the Lieutenant, as Ichabod wandered about, touching various cloth coverings. “It's scheduled for demolition next month.”

 

“But – have they any idea of what they're demolishing? The history in this room? This chamber has stood since the 1750s!” He stormed up the stairs, touched the table. “The Battle of Lexington was plotted _right here!_ ”

 

“Now it'll be a mini-mall,” said the Lieutenant with some slight sympathy.

 

Lifting one of the shrouds over a bookshelf, Ichabod said, “And where are the books?”

 

“Most of them are at the shop,” came a familiar voice from the entryway. Ichabod turned, and there was Miss Jenny. “A few are still here, though – we've been working on moving them for the past month or so.”

 

“Miss Jenny,” he said, pleased to see her. “Are you qui – ”

 

Miss Jenny approached him swiftly and punched him in the shoulder, hard.

 

“Ow!” She hit him again. “Ow! Why are you – ?” And now she was hugging him. Incomprehensible.

 

“Good to see you, Crane,” Miss Jenny said, pulling away, then moving as if to strike him once more so she could watch him flinch.

 

“And you as well,” he said, rubbing at his shoulder. “What shop is it that you speak of?”

 

“Mine and Frank's,” said Miss Jenny. “Abbie didn't tell you?”

 

Ichabod looked to the Lieutenant, who said with a rueful smile, “There's been a lot to catch up on.”

 

“We sell 'rare antiquities,' which for those in the know means 'supernatural artifacts,” Miss Jenny explained, leaning against the shrouded table. “Frank and I opened it about a month after you took off. We sell some antiques to the general public, but our real money comes from our side trade.”

 

“How fortunate for you that you are so well-versed in supernatural lore,” Ichabod said, smiling.

 

“Speaking of, we could use your help,” the Lieutenant said to her sister. “There's been an attack, two people killed. Looks to be demonic activity involved – it's part of my caseload, but I have something big going on at work tonight – ”

 

“I thought you didn't do 'Witness stuff' anymore,” said Miss Jenny, and oh dear, there was some anger behind that.

 

The Lieutenant was quick to reply, “It's a case for the FBI that happens to have supernatural elements.”

 

“So you're shoving it off onto me? Because you don't want to be involved,” scoffed Miss Jenny.

 

“What I _said_ was – ”

 

“Perhaps,” interjected Ichabod, “this is a conversation best saved for after we've identified whatever demon has been let loose on Sleepy Hollow?”

 

It had been nearly a year since Ichabod had seen the Mills sisters bickering, but he'd never forget the expressions on their faces when he'd interrupt them mid-snipe. There was much injured glaring and a general sensation of ruffled feathers settling.

 

“Okay, tell me about this demon,” said Miss Jenny.

 

The Lieutenant quickly laid out the particulars. “Victims were frightened to death, and we found a severed finger joint at the scene – ”

 

“Did it glow in the dark?” asked Miss Jenny, already hastening to one of the covered bookshelves to retrieve a volume.

 

“How did you know?”

 

“'Cause I think...I know...ha!” The younger Mills poked triumphantly at a page in a book. “There. It's a kind of yaoguai. Chinese demon,” she explained. “It's called a baigujing.”

 

Ichabod examined the volume, reading aloud, “'A skeletal spirit that spreads terror.' That must be why the bone had never been inside a living being.”

 

“Creepy,” said Miss Jenny. “So how do we stop it? Book doesn't say.”

 

“I imagine it will require further investigation,” Ichabod said, “but there's something else about the murder scene you should know.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“There were ax marks – ”

 

“We don't know that they were ax marks – ” inserted the Lieutenant.

 

“ - in the wall, that scorched the plaster, and yes they were ax marks,” finished Ichabod.

 

Miss Jenny's face was suddenly grave. “You don't think...?” She looked to her sister. “You think that Headless is back in town?”

 

When the Lieutenant merely shrugged and shook her head, arms crossed before her, Ichabod supplied, “I have some suspicion that the horseman of Death has indeed returned.”

 

“To do what?”

 

“I could not guess.”

 

Miss Jenny leaned against the table, thinking. “You think he summoned a fear demon? No,” she answered herself, “that's not his M.O.”

 

“I'm not sure he'd even know how to go about it,” said Ichabod.

 

“Then...” Ichabod and Miss Jenny's eyes met in grim understanding. “There has to be someone new in town. Someone powerful.”

 

“But Moloch is dead. We must have some new enemy, heretofore unknown to us...”

 

“This is bad,” said Miss Jenny. “Very, very bad. I should call Frank.”

 

“People?” said the Lieutenant from the across the room. “The baigujing? May be our more immediate problem.”

 

“You don't think a new player being in town is enough to warrant a little discussion?” asked Miss Jenny, leveling her sister with a glower.

 

“I _think_ that there's not enough evidence yet to suggest that – yes, Crane, I know, the pendant, okay, but maybe you should put it down – that there is any more threat than a yaoguai right now. And a baigujing,” the Lieutenant said with a harsh laugh, “is enough to start with, don't you think?”

 

Exchanging a glance with Ichabod, Miss Jenny ceded, “So where do we start?”

 

“Actually,” said the Lieutenant, finally joining them in the room proper, “I think I remember something about a Chinese demon from Grace Dixon's journal.”

 

After a few seconds of contemplation, Miss Jenny concurred, “I remember that, too. Something about visiting with a friend...? I have the journal in my truck, hold on.”

 

Once Miss Jenny strode out of the room, the Lieutenant marched forward and picked up Katrina's necklace from where it lay on the table. Holding it carefully by the chain, she pulled a piece of paper from a file box and wrapped the pendant up in it, movements swift and sharp. With nary a glance at Ichabod, she took the folded parcel and tucked it into her pocket, then snuck a glance at her watch as if nothing was awry.

 

“Lieutenant...”

 

“Not going there, Crane,” she said, still not looking at him. “It's safer in my pocket than in yours.”

 

Stammering, Ichabod managed, “In—in what way, I ask you—there is – ”

 

“I found the passage!” called Miss Jenny triumphantly as she returned, Grace Dixon's journal in hand. “Here, it says something about 'A visit with my dear friend Betsy,' and then about how they defeated a demon and then had some tea. There's nothing more specific, she just said, 'I know Elizabeth will have written of it further in her diary, as she writes me frequently in her letters that she daren't show her records to her husband.'”

 

“And nothing further?” Ichabod asked. “To whom is this 'Betsy' she refers?”

 

“No idea,” Miss Jenny admitted, lowering the book, only to have the Lieutenant snatch it from her hands.

 

“I remember something else about her friend, she said something in the section about banishing spirits...” said the Lieutenant, flipping closer to the front of the little book, “...here it is. 'This spell is a powerful one, and can shatter glass and tear fabric, which I found out upon first use of the incantation. Lucky a new acquaintance of mine, Betsy, was here, as she was apprenticed to an upholsterer and is quite adept at repairing such things.'” The Lieutenant looked to her sister with a growing astonishment. “She can't really mean...?”

 

“I think she does,” agreed Miss Jenny, eyes wide in amazement.

 

“Well?” prompted Ichabod, after a moment.

 

“Betsy Ross,” said the Lieutenant, and at Ichabod's continued perplexity, “you know, _the_ Betsy Ross. The woman who sewed the first American flag?”

 

“You really didn't know her, Crane? I thought you knew everybody back then,” teased Miss Jenny.

 

“Everybody who was anybody,” rejoined the Lieutenant.

 

After a moment of thought, Ichabod ventured, “I believe I recall General Washington mentioning her name to me, after the continental congress. I was told she was rather eager to keep my company.”

 

“Don't strain yourself on our account, Crane.” Oh, Miss Jenny thought herself very amusing.

 

For a moment, a genuine smile crossed the Lieutenant's features, until she once more glanced at her watch and returned to business. “So where can we find – I can't believe I'm saying this – Betsy Ross's diary? If it survived, that is?”

 

“Miss Dixon said that it was hidden,” said Ichabod.

 

“So... _anywhere_ she's lived, then.” Miss Jenny retrieved her laptop, setting it on the table and opening it up. “That's helpful.”

 

“It's somewhere to start, anyway,” the Lieutenant said, digging through her ancestor's journal as she spoke.

 

“Betsy Ross house...no, apparently she might not have actually lived there...”

 

“Nothing else in here that I'm seeing...”

 

“Miss Jenny...do you think her desk might have survived?” Ichabod asked.

 

The younger Mills sister tapped at the laptop, clicked a few times, and “Yes! It did!”

 

The Lieutenant queried, “You think it would be in her desk?”

 

“Where else would you sit to write a diary?”

 

“I don't write a diary.”

 

“I did, at one point,” Ichabod said, and the Lieutenant raised her eyebrows in surprise. “In the field, when I was older, but as a youth I'd sit at my mother's desk and write.”

 

“You're not gonna believe this, Abbie,” said Miss Jenny. “The desk – it's at Colonial Times.”

 

The second genuine smile in as many minutes from the Lieutenant. “Oh, no, I'm gonna miss it!”

 

“I'll take pictures,” Miss Jenny promised, right before her phone rang. “Sorry.” She stepped away to answer it.

 

And now Ichabod had to speak. “What is it? Exactly? That you're taking pictures of?”

 

“Only the corniest theme restaurant on the face of the planet.”

 

“Theme restaurant...oh, no.” Ichabod's face fell.

 

“Oh, yes,” said the Lieutenant with a wicked grin. While she might be enjoying schadenfreude at his expense, Ichabod could not begrudge her that if it pleased her so. She had so evidently been upset earlier that it left him feeling that he would allow the whole world to laugh at him provided it made her smile.

 

“Oh, no,” he murmured again, smothering a smile of his own.

 

Another glance at her watch had her sighing. “And I have to get back to work. Jenny, you promise you'll send me a Snapchat? I wanna see him turn red,” said the Lieutenant as her sister hung up her phone.

 

“You'll have to ask Frank to do it,” said Miss Jenny, annoyed. “ _I_ apparently have to go 'meet with a problem customer.' Mrs. Shiva. He knows I can't stand her, he just doesn't want to deal with her flirting with him! Anyway, he said he'd go with you to search the desk, Crane.”

 

The Lieutenant turned for the door, saying over her shoulder, “All right, I'll see you two later – text me with what you find.”

 

***

"And how fare Cynthia and Macey?" asked Crane, finally, after ten full minutes regaling Frank with a tale of his first experience on an airplane.

 

"I wouldn't know. I think they're fine," Frank said, tartly. Glancing to the passenger seat, he saw Crane give him a questioning look. Frank gave a heavy sigh. "When I told Cynthia what happened, with Henry and being controlled and all, she said she'd had enough. Packed up herself and Macey and took off for who-knows-where, 'cause she sure as hell didn't tell me." He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "Answer your question?"

 

After a pause, Crane said in a measured tone, "I apologize, Captain, that a member of my family has separated you from yours."

 

"Yeah, well."

 

"Do you ever hear from them?"

 

"Macey sends me a text or an email from time to time. Seems happy." Frank shrugged. "Probably good they're out of the line of fire, at least."

 

"If I may ask," ventured Crane, "why did you not also remove yourself from the line of fire?"

 

"'Cause even if Abbie thinks the danger's over, I know that this is just a break. Calm before the storm." Flipping on the directional, Frank changed lanes and took the correct exit for their destination. "And I for one don't feel like watching the world burn when I could do something to stop it."

 

"I fear the Lieutenant is - justifiably - very...cross...with me."

 

"You could say that. Or you could say that she's willing and able to rip your limbs off with her teeth," said Frank with great diplomacy.

 

"Thank you for expressing that so colorfully," Crane said, his tone dry.

 

"Look," offered Frank as he pulled into the restaurant's parking lot, "she'll probably get over it, provided you do some serious groveling. I'm talking down on your knees, begging for forgiveness groveling."

 

"Yes?"

 

"And you have to promise to never, ever do it again. And possibly buy her flowers." Putting the car into park, Frank turned his head to look at Crane. "To be honest, I'd appreciate a grovel myself. I'm not too happy with the way you took off."

 

After a couple of startled blinks, Crane said, "You have my most sincere apologies for leaving you in the lurch."

 

"Good," said Frank perfunctorily, and opened the door of the car. "And stick around this time. We don't know what's coming and we need all the help we can get."

 

***

 

Muttering to himself, Ichabod trailed Captain Irving to the lower level of the so-called 'Colonial-themed' restaurant. "As if the war were a fun 'cosplay,' rather than a fight for our very lives." Briefly, he stopped to view a menu on the wall. "'Spaghetti and musket-balls'? You know, just because it happened a long time ago does not mean that it was not a very difficult time for all involved," he ranted, to a child passing by wearing a tri-corner hat.

 

A camera flash went off, and Irving lowered his phone, tapping something on it - presumably sending the photograph to the sisters Mills. "Stop scaring the locals, Crane," said Captain Irving, before beckoning him closer. In a lower voice, he said, "Is this it?"

 

There was a small, fragile-looking desk tucked away in a corner under the stairwell. "Yes, I believe so. And in good condition, considering its location," finished Ichabod, bitterly.

 

"Okay, Crane, we get it, they're not respectful. Think you can stop bitching about it for a minute and stand watch?"

 

"I -" began Ichabod, offended, then realized the veracity of the sentiment. "Of course, Captain."

 

"Quit calling me 'Captain,'" was the murmured reply as the two assumed their assigned positions. "You know I'm not a Captain anymore."

 

"Mr. Irving, then."

 

Irving shuddered, then shooed Ichabod to go stand by an enormous figure in the likeness of Benjamin Franklin, its head far larger than the proportions of its body. "Well, at least they got that right," said Ichabod to himself. A small child looked over from her plate of mashed potatoes and stared at him, fork halfway to her mouth. "Yes, may I help you?" he snapped. The child gasped and turned back to her plate.

 

Behind Ichabod there came a muffled _clunk_ followed by Irving's soft "Ha!" of discovery, just before Irving came round the pillar holding something beneath his coat and looking triumphant. "Good to go," he said as he passed, and Ichabod gratefully followed.

 

They meandered out slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion, which gave Ichabod ample time to glare at the various accoutrements of 'colonial life' on the way. When he turned from the poor likeness of General Washington, he noticed his companion watching him. "This isn't what it was like," he said, more sad than angry.

 

"I figured," said Irving. Then, after a moment: "Why don't you call me Frank?"

 

***

 

After an abbreviated tour of the store, Forgotten Treasures, Miss Jenny and Mr. Irving (Frank, he had said to call him ‘Frank’) settled in to bicker good-naturedly about inventory, and Ichabod settled into a chair in the back room to search Betsy Ross’s diary for information about the baigujing. The fragile brown journal was filled with tiny writing - very good penmanship, far more legible than Ichabod’s chicken scratch - and he was forced to skim the text, rather than savor it, to his chagrin. The contents were a fascinating mixture of mundanities and occasional glimpses into the supernatural, and would certainly be worthy of a fuller reading in the future.

 

About halfway through, Ichabod found the relevant entry.

 

_May 3rd, 1775_

 

_I’ve had occasion to travel to New York for a visit with my dear friend Grace Dixon. She has of late given me a very good excuse for more frequent trips: as the house matron of Fredericks’ Manor, she has the charge of assuring the upholstery is in good repair. And with the goings-on at Fredericks’ Manor, which I had the great surprise of encountering upon my first visit last year, the household has much need of regular maintenance of all sorts._

 

_It was a great relief to see Grace. She is very sympathetic to my worry over my husband’s well-being since the war has broken out, as her husband has been likewise sent away - to deal with an enemy of a less earthly nature than my own John will face. We were sharing stories of our various hardships (I of course told her of the struggle with Mr. Jenkins and his thirteen dining chairs) when screams arose from the other end of the house. Grace told me to hide in a closet, but I naturally would have none of that, and the two of us hurried to investigate._

 

_Several of the housemaids had heard angry shouting, and had spotted in a corner of the property what appeared to be a - is it not strange that I am no longer thrown over with alarm at such things? - skeleton, skulking among the bushes and luminous in the night. Poor Mr. Fredericks was caught entirely unawares on his way from the stables, and had to use an incantation to light a haystack aflame some distance away, to distract the creature. (One of the gardeners was thoroughly enraged by the destruction of a flowerbed nearby to the stack, and gave Mr. Fredericks a piece of his mind the next day, much to mine and Grace’s private amusement.)_

 

_Grace was applied to for a solution, as she is the one with the most knowledge of demons. Fortunately for the housemaids’ nerves, she had a fix readily to hand: a large and quite gaudy wooden carving of a monkey (though heavens know why she had this just lying about in the house. Well, to combat skeletal demons, I suppose). When she mentioned to me that any carving would do with the proper procedure, I was given to wonder why she had not sought a more attractive bauble, but what do I know about the inner workings of such hedgewitchery?_

 

_I could not get a clear view of Grace’s heroic rescue of the manor, but through the obstruction of the bushes I saw her face, eyes closed in concentration, and a bright and extended flash of unnatural blue light. Later, and as if this was all a perfectly natural daily occurrence, she informed me that the carved monkey must be wielded by the right sort of person (someone with a lineage greatly tied to the supernatural), and that her concentration lay on a connection with such (that is, a strong belief in her relations to said lineage and duties). Then she said something about a legend of ‘Sum Wookon.’ It was all quite incomprehensible, and made me even more relieved that I don’t have her responsibilities._

 

_The next morn we awoke very late, and Grace was feeling poorly, so while she attended to what duties she had, I prepared some pop-robbins with apples from the Manor’s orchards (a variation I had not yet tried), which were mostly successful at raising her spirits. Following breakfast I installed the new couch-covers that were the reason for my visit, and I had very little time with Grace before she packed me off back to New Jersey with a lovely lunch done up by Wendy Tiller, one of the cooks._

 

_Now that I’ve returned to my empty home, I find myself missing John more every hour, so I took the distraction of writing down my little adventure before the details slipped from my mind. Time to get back to work, I suppose, and I’d best set to Mrs. Collins’ settee or I’ll be in bad bread._

 

***

 

One of the leaders of the Anaconda task force, Agent Harris, was presenting his infiltration plan for that night, when Abbie’s phone lit up and buzzed with a text message. Glancing at the screen, she said quietly to the agent next to her, “Sorry, family emergency, gotta take this,” and ducked out of the room.

 

 _Lieutenant,_ read the message, _we have retrieved Betsy Ross’s diary and discerned that to defeat the baigujing we must summon the spirit of Sun Wu-Kong, the Monkey King of Chinese legend._

 

The phone buzzed with another text. _Your sister has secured the required material and though crude, I believe it will be sufficient for our purposes. Due to the nature of this missive, I must unfortunately be brief. I would be obliged if you would phone at your earliest convenience. Yours respectfully, Ichabod Crane._

 

Abbie called Jenny, instead. “Is Crane seriously whining at me over text message?” she asked, when her sister picked up.

 

“You’re the one who said you missed him. He’s still going on about the monkey statue? Like, yeah, it’s tacky, but no one said it had to be pretty, just that it be shaped like a monkey.”

 

“So what’s the plan, here?” said Abbie, trying to hasten things along. A couple of the agents in the conference room were surreptitiously peeking out at her through the glass walls - she stepped behind a pillar.

 

“Demon’s attracted to big crowds of angry people,” Jenny said. “And since Headless can only come out at night - ”

 

“We still don’t know that he’s around, Jen - ”

 

“ - we figure the number one best guess at where it’ll go is…”

 

“The Anaconda sting,” finished Abbie, and sighed. “You know I can’t get away, right? I have a job to do.”

 

“No, it’s fine, we’ve got this covered. Since Headless will be there, Crane will be good bait. The statue should work for me, I think. You should really read this diary entry, it has a lot about Grace in it.”

 

“What makes the statue work?”

 

“Strong supernatural affinity and lineage. Or something. Probably.”

 

“Should work for you, then,” affirmed Abbie. One of the agents poked his head out of the conference room to tell her they were ready for her presentation. “I gotta run. You got this?”

 

“We should, yeah. You gonna keep avoiding Crane?”

 

“‘Bye, Jenny.” Hanging up, Abbie tucked her phone into her suit jacket pocket, and returned to the conference room, striding to the front. “Anaconda,” she said to the gathered agents. “Let’s talk key players.”

 

***

 

Night had fallen and they’d closed the antiques shop in order to scout a good location near the Anaconda meet. They’d needed to position themselves nearby far in advance so as not to tip off the criminals meeting in the adjacent warehouse. The building they’d picked had long aisles of stacked boxes, high enough that Frank was able to position himself atop one of them to peek through one of the high windows at the operation next door. Jenny was close by and holding a gun, to play sniper if needed. The poorly-carved wooden statuette of a monkey was at her side.

 

Crane was against the outside wall of the warehouse, in the shadows, ready to lure in their quarry.

 

“Quit fidgeting, Crane,” whispered Jenny into her walkie-talkie. Through the scope of her rifle, she saw Crane’s silhouette raise his own walkie to his lips.

 

“Oh, apologies,” came the sarcastic reply. “And I’m sure next time you’ll be glad to act as bait for a skeleton demon and the horseman of Death.”

 

Movement at the edge of Jenny’s field of vision! She swung her rifle - “Crane, behind you,” she said into the walkie, then to Frank, “You see it?”

 

“It’s glowing like a damned road flare. Yes, I see it.”

 

Just then gunfire rang out in the adjacent warehouse, and Jenny spared a moment to worry about her sister before firing at the baigujing to draw its attention. The demon - Jesus, it was exactly as advertised, a creepy-ass glowy, walking skeleton - swiveled its head up to look at her with its empty eye sockets, the movement inhuman. “Crane, now!” she called.

 

A second loud burst of gunfire from next door covered the sound of Crane firing his pistol at the baigujing, which advanced on him - quickly, way too quickly - while Crane did an almost-comical about-face, pelting full-speed toward the warehouse door around the corner.

 

“Follow him!” said Jenny, and she and Frank ran along the tops of the crates.

 

“Oh, crap!” Frank said, spotting something out the window. He said into the walkie-talkie, “Crane, you were right about the horseman.” Whirling to the window, Jenny caught sight of Headless, dismounted and raising his rifle to take aim at Crane. “Haul ass!”

 

“I’d gathered I should do that, thank you, Captain,” came the panted reply. The door of the warehouse crashed open and Crane went running by down the aisle of boxes closest to them, a blur of old-fashioned clothing and Revolutionary-era curses.

 

The baigujing was in hot pursuit, creaking and rattling as it followed, lighting up the boxes around it like an eerie beacon. “How does it stay all together like that?” wondered Jenny.

 

“Who cares?” returned Frank, and shot at the thing, knocking it briefly for a loop. “Get the statue!”

 

“Right!” Jenny scrambled for the wooden figurine, clasping it in both hands and concentrating hard.

 

“Any time now, Mills,” growled Frank.

 

***

 

The scene was one of organized chaos: after a brief exchange of gunfire upon the FBI task force’s rush on the meeting of drug kingpins, most of the work had been cleanup. The majority of agents were now corralling the remaining criminals into a corner for questioning and arrest. Abbie herself was just affixing a pair of handcuffs to the wrists of Lorenzo Jenkins himself, who was protesting loudly about his rights as an American.

 

“Nice work, Mills,” said Agent Cummings, a deceptively-fragile looking Agent-in-Charge, as she approached. “Where’s your C.I.?”

 

Indicating with a nod of her head, Abbie said, “Over there, ma’am. Johnny Kato. We wouldn’t have known about this meet if it weren’t for him.” The man in question was standing calmly in handcuffs next to a member of the SWAT team.

 

Upon mention of the criminal informant’s name, Abbie’s captive started squirming and hollering, “KATO! You’re telling me it was _Kato?!!_ I’ll make him pay! Low-level scum-sucker - you’re dead, kid! YOU’RE DEAD!” The whole room directed its attention to the screaming man as Abbie forced his face back against a table - which is when one of the other goons who hadn’t yet been cuffed took the diversion as an opportunity to pull a gun from an ankle holster.

 

During the resulting swarm of agents and police officers, and in between bursts of gunfire, Abbie heard what some part of her had, despite all internal protests, been primed to hear. There was a round of distant gunshots, and then an unearthly shriek, and - “Agent Cummings,” Abbie said to her superior, as soon as the excitement had died down. “I just remembered - I think Kato said something about a setup in the warehouse next door.”

 

“We’ll send some people to check it out,” said Cummings, raising her hand to call someone else over to them.

 

“No, I’ll - it could be nothing.” Abbie handed Lorenzo Jenkins off to one of the officers, using the exchange to hide her unease. “I can check it out, call it in if it’s anything.”

 

After a moment of thought, Cummings nodded. “Don’t risk yourself. If there are any stragglers, call it in.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Abbie, already hustling out of the warehouse. Once she was through the door, she took off running.

 

***

 

Frank and Crane were firing steadily at the baigujing, but Jenny knew they were getting low on ammunition.

 

That’s when the horseman appeared at the door, striding in and immediately turning his attention to Jenny, who was desperately squeezing the statue between her hands and whispering, “Come on, come on, come on.”

 

“Jenny!” called Frank, as he finally ran out of bullets and hastened to reload.

 

“It’s not working!” she called back, then shouted, “Crane!”

 

Crane stepped away from the wall of crates so he could see her, and she chucked the monkey figurine in his direction. Catching it, he holstered his gun, backing away from the baigujing that had continued its advance now that no one was firing on it. Jenny raised her rifle, catching the baigujing right in the ‘nose,’ to no apparent effect. “Twenty points,” she muttered to herself.

 

The horseman stepped forward, ax swinging, while at the other end of the aisle Crane was still backing away, clasping the little figurine between his hands. The statue remained stubbornly free of any incarnation of Sun Wu-Kong. The sound of gunfire was ringing through the space, and through the din a rattling shriek came from between the demon’s teeth. Abruptly, Crane’s hands dropped, his eyes locked on the baigujing’s skull, a look of utter horror on his face.

 

A cry came from the other end of the warehouse. “Crane, back away! _Back away!”_ It was Abbie, she’d come through the other door, Jenny realized as she shot a hurried glance over her shoulder. Crane wasn’t moving, transfixed, so Abbie rushed forward and seized the statue from his hands, and then there was an enormous flash of blue light.

 

All sound ceased, and the cavernous room was filled with a whining hum - either that, or Jenny’s ears were just ringing from all the gunfire. Squinting against the light emanating from her sister, she finally managed to make out what was happening.

 

Abbie stood under an enormous glowing, blue form of someone wearing heavy, Chinese-style armor. The vision seemed to be entirely made up of light. In time with Abbie, the figure raised an immense sword over its head, bringing the intangible blade straight down onto the baigujing and encompassing its entire frame. Another flash of blue light and the demon faded away into nothing - Crane slumped and stumbled into the wall of the aisle - and Jenny caught a glimpse of motion from the corner of her eye. In the ringing silence, the door slammed shut behind the horseman’s retreating figure.

 

Jenny looked back to the form of the person in armor glowing over Abbie’s head. The pair of them pulled their arms back to themselves, bringing both sword and monkey statue back to their original positions. The armored figure’s helmet swung slowly to gaze around the room, examining each of them in turn: Frank, Jenny, and Crane. Then it gave a solemn nod, and dissipated, leaving Jenny’s sister standing in the suddenly-dark warehouse, clutching a tacky carving of a monkey and looking heartily bemused.

 

As one, Frank and Jenny moved to swing themselves down from atop the stacks of boxes, hustling to Abbie. “Did I just channel the spirit of the Monkey King?” asked Abbie, as Jenny drew near.

 

“Pretty sure you did,” Jenny answered with a smile, and pulled her sister into a tight hug.

 

Frank clapped Abbie on the back. “Nice job, Mills.”

 

“Yeah, thanks. Guess it just wasn’t gonna work for us,” said Jenny.

 

“Surprised it didn’t work for you, Crane,” observed Frank, turning to the man who was still regaining his balance by leaning against the wall of the aisle.

 

“Wrong Witness, I think,” Crane replied, finally pushing away from the crates. “Well. That was the most terrified I’ve ever been in my life. Thank you, Lieutenant. For. That.” He gestured vaguely.

 

Turning to her sister, Jenny watched Abbie smile that secret smile she’d only ever seen her use towards her fellow Witness. “Welcome back, Crane,” she said, and wrapped her partner up in a hug.

 

Jenny felt a little like she was intruding on something, so she stepped aside to ask Frank, “Think Headless is gone?”

 

Frank raised his eyebrows at her. “What do you think?”

 

She considered for a moment. “I think that beer.”

 

***

 

“I still contend that that carving is one of the most hideous I’ve ever beheld,” said Crane from where he was ensconced in an armchair that was more ‘vintage’ than ‘antique.’

 

Abbie was perched on a nearby coffee table. She held the monkey statuette close, “Careful, Crane, you’ll hurts its feelings. You’re lucky this one’s the ‘hear no evil’ monkey.”

 

“Here, give that back,” Jenny said, snatching it from her sister’s hand and returning it to its place beside its ‘see-no-evil’ and ‘speak-no-evil’ companions in the set.

 

“You sure you want to sell that now that’s it’s been used to summon the spirit of a Chinese legend?” Abbie asked.

 

“You say that like you think someone would actually want to buy that ugly set,” said Frank.

 

“I don’t know, I think people have bought uglier tchotchkes before,” Jenny said with a laugh. She drained the last of her beer and went to the shop’s little mini-fridge behind the counter for another. “We’re out,” she announced. “Beer run?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll come,” Frank said, grabbing his coat.

 

When the shop door closed behind Frank and Jenny, the two Witnesses were left alone in an uncomfortable silence.

 

They both tried to speak at once.

 

“Lieutenant, I - ”

 

“Crane - ”

 

Awkward laughter, then Crane gestured that Abbie should continue.

 

“Let me see that tablet one more time?” she asked, finally.

 

Retrieving it, Crane set the oddly-lightweight stone tablet on the small table between them for inspection. Abbie made a spinning gesture with a finger, so Crane obediently turned it over so the back was visible.

 

“Wait - what’s that?” Abbie shifted to pick up the tablet for herself, running her fingers along one of the edges. “It looks like there’s...another piece…” With a grinding sound, the tablet split in half, revealing that it was comprised of two thinner tablets. There was a relief carved into one of them. “Oh, my God.”

 

The carving was of two people, the taller holding a sword, the smaller a wand, and there were some runes set underneath the portrait. “Curious,” said Crane, leaning in to run his fingers over the runes once they’d placed the halves of the tablet back on the table.

 

“What does it say?”

 

“It will require more time for a proper translation, but…” Adjusting his position in the chair, Crane bent to scrutinize the writing. “It’s closer to Acadian than Sumerian, and - well, I must allow for variances between regional dialects, I shall have to do some further research - ”

 

“Crane,” prompted Abbie.

 

“One word. It says ‘Destroyers.’”

 

“Hunh,” said Abbie after a pause to take that in. “Meaning what? Destroyers of what?”

 

“I couldn’t tell you,” said Crane, deep in thought.

 

“You don’t still think this is some kind of prophecy, do you?”

 

With a finger, Crane traced the shapes of the recessed carving, deep in thought. “These figures look rather familiar.”

 

Abbie gave a soft, disbelieving laugh.

 

“After tonight’s events, Lieutenant, you cannot still doubt your role as a Witness. It was your lineage, your connection with Grace Dixon, and your affiliation to the supernatural, that allowed you to utilize that - that - “

 

“Ugly knick-knack?” Abbie finished. She sighed heavily, then admitted, “Yeah, okay, you’re probably right about that. As much as I didn’t want that to be the case. But - that entry in Betsy Ross’s diary…” The little brown journal in question lay on the counter, alongside Grace Dixon’s own writings. “I felt really close to Grace again, in a way I hadn’t for months, when I read that. I think I need to read the rest of that diary. And I think - “ she bit her lip, fighting her pride, “ - you _may_ have been right about there being a new player in town.”

 

“You said it,” he murmured, in echo of her comment earlier in the day.

 

Abbie laughed briefly, but the weight of the topic still hung in the air. “I saw the horseman as clearly as you. What do you think he was doing with that baigujing?”

 

“That I couldn’t tell you.” Crane polished off the last of his beer and set it down beside the stone tablet.

 

After regarding him for a moment, more thoughtfully than angrily, Abbie asked, “Why did you stay away so long, Crane?” He raised startled eyes to her. “I want a real reason.”

 

“When I had first left…” he began, “...I went because I thought I should take some time to myself after what happened with Henry, and - and - with K-Katrina.” Crane swallowed hard, knotting his hands together. “And what I had done - there. But then as time went on, and I came to grips with all that had occurred, I began to wonder...had I served my purpose? Had defeating Moloch, and stopping my wife and my son, been my reason for being brought to this century?” He took a deep breath, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his torso. “If so, I was very glad to step aside, and to allow you, Lieutenant, to live the life that you were meant to be leading before all of _this,_ ” he gestured to the tablet, to the shop around them, “intruded.

 

“And then I discovered this artifact, and suddenly...I realized that perhaps our work was not yet done.” Leaning forward in his seat again, Crane tapped his fingers on the carved stone. “Seeing this, I thought maybe, whilst I may never truly belong in this time, my role as a Witness was not yet complete.”

 

Tilting her head to one side, Abbie regarded her partner. “Crane.”

 

“Lieutenant,” he returned.

 

“You do not need a - you do not need a _reason_ to be here, okay? You do not need to find any excuses, supernatural or otherwise, to be in Sleepy Hollow. You belong _here._ ” They met eyes, and didn’t break contact even as the shop door opened again and Frank and Jenny came in, quietly bickering, with their beer purchases. “This is your home. Okay? Don’t leave again if you don’t have to.”

 

“Yeah, Crane, you’re basically family,” Jenny put in as she flopped down onto the couch, twisting open a fresh bottle of beer. “Can’t get rid of us now.”

 

As Crane turned suspiciously-glittering eyes back to the artifact on the table, ostensibly studying it, Abbie asked, “What the hell kind of beer is this? Jenny. I thought you had taste. What is this?”

 

“It’s _free,_ ” said Frank with finality, and they all laughed.

 

***

 

In a stand of trees across the parking lot, a pale woman in a large cloak gazed inscrutably at the lit-up storefront of ‘Forgotten Treasures.’ One of her hands rested on the muzzle of the horse next to her, upon which was its rider, also inscrutable - although in his case, the inscrutability came from the fact that he had no face to give away his feelings.

 

Pandora tilted her head slightly, as if listening to a question. “I think,” she said, answering it, “that they will do nicely for our purposes.” It was a warm night, but her voice seemed to bring a chill to the air. “If you’ve no objections to doing your part.”

 

The horseman swiveled his shoulders, as though he was looking at her. Pandora nodded in response to whatever he had said, and the horseman turned and rode near-silently into the bushes, leaving Pandora staring across the empty parking lot.

 

“Poor little Witnesses,” she lamented softly with a smile. While warm light and laughter spilled from the windows yards away, Pandora faded slowly into the dark, leaving nothing but a patch of frigid air and an empty shadow.

**Author's Note:**

> Much, much more to come. As I get further along, I'll be deviating further and further from canon, so while a few chapters might vaguely parallel Season 3 episodes, many of them will not.
> 
> Thanks for reading! More soon.


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